War Torn
by Yumeshojo
Summary: Sthet and Svain have done their best to hide from the world, but when Sthet wanders across the border into Skyrim, Svain follows. What the two find is a place to call home - but the cost might be pitting the twins against one another in a war that can only end in death. They share a face, a life, a madness - but do they share the soul of a dragon?


**Disclaimer: ****Ég átt ekki, né gera ég gera peningar burt af, þessari sögu né hugverk er byggt burt af. (Icelandic~)  
**

**This story stemmed from my desire to make a 'venting' save on Skyrim, aka a file where I vented daily frustration by running around killing everybody (what? You don't have a venting file? It's fun). Can't do this on my usual games because I'm usually an extremely lawful good character, so Sthet was created in order to electrocute the populace at large, just for fun. Svain came along after a bit (FIRE!) and this story kinda morphed into existence. I really like these two, they feel like my mind children.  
**

* * *

The mountains are always cold. A soft blanket of white, riding gray hillside after gray hillside, along a horizon that sometimes bursts with color, but is mostly a dreary blue. There's nothing here Sthet can find to calm the ache in his mind. His head throbs, filled to the breaking point with an insufferable silence. Sometimes he loves the silence, thrives in it, finds peace he's rarely known and longs for. But the longer he's here, the more painful the silence becomes, the more it builds behind his ears and pulses behind his eyes and presses on his brain. It he hadn't already been informed he was crazy, these mountains would definitely have drove him there.

He can't stand them anymore, these mountains. The endless rolls of white burn his eyes, and he claws at his own arms, spilling gashes of red, just to add color. He treasures the dying of the sun when finally the sky lights on fire, but all too soon it's gone and he feels the drumming begin again. How can silence drum? He doesn't know, but it does.

He wants to scream, but he can't. There's no voice for this agony he lives in, there never has been. What few words Svain's confident smiles illicit are soft and low and hard to articulate. He can think, sometimes, enough to speak, but most of the time it's easier just to act.

Act. Yes, act. Actions. Movement. Progress. Change. Nothing will change if he doesn't move, doesn't act, doesn't make it happen and it needs to happen he can't take this any more he has to go go go go-

* * *

When Svain returns from his hunt, he's humming to himself. He's got venison and goat legs, even nabbed a chicken from Bruma down south. He's been away longer than usual, but he's not worried – Sthet has been as calm as ever, well behaved and rather taken with a new fascination in electrocuting passing fowls. He has no reason to worry, until he sees the blood.

Did Sthet kill another bird? Svain sees no feathers, and when Sthet catches a potential meal he tends to make a mess. He sets down his kills in a clean patch of snow, curious, and follows the blood and his brother's footprints. They do not follow Sthet's usual route, around the little cabin tucked away between the hills, hidden from sight and life and law. They do not run through the more beautiful places, the frozen lake or the dwemer ruins or the cliffs that showcase the sunset. They are leading up. They are leading away.

No. No no no no no-

* * *

Sthet has gone farther than he ever has. The scenary is changing, the snow is thinning, there are trees and tufts of grass and patches of color that loosens the silence. Birds chirp. Wildlife sneaks through the bramble. An arrow flies past.

"Halt!"

A man is rushing him, an arrow knocked and a face stern. The movement is quick, and Sthet feels his fingers tingle, but the feeling fades as the man slows. He's a good distance away, wary, and Sthet is curious. It's been along time since he's seen another person, besides Svain.

There are more of them, quite suddenly. They are circling him, brandishing swords and axes and all dressed alike. Uniforms. Military. Imperial.

They arrest him, and Sthet behaves. Obey the law, Svain has told him. Yield when they attack you, go quietly when they arrest you, say nothing when they speak to you, except to tell them to find me. Svain takes care of his brother, he always has.

Sthet suddenly realizes Svain isn't beside him.

* * *

The snow is thinning, and Sthet's footprints fade. Svain is only an ametuer tracker, and he's never been this far north. He thinks he might have crossed the border by now. Skyrim.

There's a war going on up here, he hates to think. His blood pumps through him, warm and excited, ready for anything. He's worried for his brother, but also himself being let loose in the world. His twin may be the crazy one, but Svain has no illusions that he is entirely sane, either. He's surrounded by snow and trees and the hum of life, and he wants it to burn. His hands are tingling, warming, and a simple flick of his fingers could set the world alight, and he feels a laugh building in his throat, the thrill coursing in his veins.

But Sthet is out here, somewhere, and while his brother is powerful and intelligent and kind, he is not smart, not a good judge – of anything.

Svain has come upon a road. Fresh tracks are dug into the mud, directing a path that Svain decides to take, having long since lost his brother's trail. A road means a town, a town filled with people and alcohol and meat and sweets, things Sthet loves, things Sthet will search for to calm the turmoil inside him. Except for the people. He'll just kill the people.

* * *

Sthet is in the back of a carriage. It's nice, he thinks, but he'd rather walk. He liked walking better, liked being able to go the places his own two feet took him, liked taking in the scenery at his leisure and being able to think (at least sometimes). The carriage is bumpy and rattles loudly, and he's crowded together with a small band of others. One is talking, his voice is soothing. Sthet tries to listen, he really does. It's harder to concentrate, to understand this new voice, this voice that isn't Svain's, isn't his own.

"Are you alright, High Elf? I didn't think you were injured, but you're being awfully quiet."

He should answer, he thinks. This is a conversation. He's had them before. But there a birds flying overhead, trees passing by with floods of color, and the rumble of the carriage doesn't sound so bad anymore. It's hard to think about what to say. Why should anything be said? The world isn't a blanket of white and gray anymore. It's beautiful.

When the carriage pulls into a village, Sthet feels apprehension set in. He isn't supposed to be around people, Svain has made that clear. But his hands are bound and he's in the carriage, away from the others, so it's alright, isn't it?

They stop, and Sthet is too busy taking it all in, admiring the world around him – this new and interesting world – to listen to the shouts that sound. They are telling him to move, but he doesn't hear. A guard hits him, hard, pushing him over the edge of the carriage. He lands on his back, his head strikes stone, and a ringing sounds inside his mind, pierces his ears, fills him with a panic that he's known before, a panic that makes his mind cry out for his twin.

He doesn't try to get up. He only tries to calm down, tries to recede into his skull, somewhere calm and safe. They force him to his feet, but he doesn't feel it. The soothing voice from earlier is in his ear, shoulder to his shoulder, steady and warm.

Someone is shot. Another is beheaded. Death is so easy.

The world is on fire.

* * *

Svain is standing outside the city, watching from a high perch. He can see his brother, see the soldiers, see them push him. His eyes narrow, his expression hardens, his fingers twitch, and magma is what flows through his veins. Flames trickle upwards, knitting through his fingers and rising in snaking threads up his arms.

He shouldn't do this, but he wants to.

They shouldn't have shoved him. That deserves retribution, doesn't it? Justifying. His parents told him a long time ago not to try to justify himself or his brother. They are just mad, that's all. Even the mad are responsible for their actions.

So Svain acknowledges that he is doing this because he wants to. His is angry, so very angry. He wants his brother, and he wants to go home. Not that the cabin is home, really. It's a hovel, a mound of wood that serves as shelter. He hates it there, but it's safe for Sthet. Sthet is what makes it home.

Svain doesn't even hear the roar in the winds. He never sees the dragon. He leaves the rock and his view, slides down the hill and takes the road through the front gates. Walks down the main street, staying close to the buildings. Readies his hands. Flexes his fingers. And runs his fingers along the walls of wood, setting Helgen aflame.

* * *

In the chaos, Sthet finds that peace he was looking for. The running, the screaming, the fire. Death, dragons, a sea of bright and glorious colors. He feels alive.

The fires are warm, dazzling, and comforting. Fire personifies Svain to Sthet. He feels his brother in their tickling blaze. He doesn't feel alone anymore.

"High Elf! This way! What are you doing?"

It's the soothing voice from earlier, harsher and hurried, but concerned all the same. The Nord – ah, he's a Nord, Sthet can tell now, thinking is coming easier – grabs his wrist and pulls him away, towards a tower. Overhead, a dragon screeches.

* * *

He is searching through the confusion, the massive ball of panic and fear, trying to find his brother. Svain has located the execution block, but the buildings around him are crumbling, and there's no sign of Sthet. He sees the dragon now, smiles at it's mission of destruction, and tries to stay out of its path.

"Prisoner! Still alive?"

Svain turns. It's a soldier, Imperial. He's been mistaken for his twin, and he isn't surprised by it. Despite Svain wearing normal clothes and his brother wearing black robes, no one would think he was anybody else. They have the same black hair pulled back from their pale face, the same green eyes, same dark facial hair, and same jagged scars running down the right cheek and bottom lip. Identical in every way, Svain's always made sure of it.

"Stick with me if you want to keep it that way."

Svain eyes the dying city and decides this might not be such a bad suggestion. And anyway, Imperial army equals authority, and that might be something he'll need with Sthet still on the loose. He needs to find him, and another set of eyes won't hurt.

"Lead the way."


End file.
